


Paint Me Purple

by RavenGrey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Paint, Fluff, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Snuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenGrey/pseuds/RavenGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His first sight upon entering the flat is the smiley that lies above the couch. It now has a rather spiffing moustache, painted on in what he presumes is the goop that smells like pineapples.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint Me Purple

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I meant to proof read this but I got lazy. Sorry 'bout that.

When Sarah had let him off early, John had been downright ecstatic. So far that day he had doctored 6 screaming children, two almost equally angry women and an elderly women with a hearing impairment and a headcold, on what was supposed to be his day off. None of which had done anything to help with the nasty hangover he was currently nursing from his night out with Mike. He had left that fateful night with Sherlock's insufferably smug voice following him down the hall, unaware of the perils that he would be faced with on the morrow.  


"Try not to vomit on the stairs this time." He'd drawn the bow across the strings of his violin then, before continuing with his tuning. The note had shivered ominously and John had responded hotly as he'd put on his jacket.

"That happened one time!" Mike had laughed at the both of them and they'd gone on their merry way. Sometime around one in the morning, John managed to drag his intoxicated self back to the flat, leaning heavily on an almost as drunk Mike. The cab that they'd commandeered waited faithfully by the curb as they made their way to door. Mike nearly tripped on the step and John had caught him, sending him off with a wave before he let himself in after a few tries. He'd meant to hang up his coat, but he'd missed the peg entirely, his coat dropping into a forlorn pile on the floor before he dragged himself up the stairs. He managed not to throw up on the stairs, this time, something that he had prided himself for at the time, before making his way stealthily to his bedroom. 

Well, as stealthily as a drunk man is capable of. Which meant that he'd bumped into just about everything, tripped over the leg of his chair and just barely caught himself and had climbed the steps very very slowly, the railing gripped tightly as he made his way upstairs .

He'd been woken the next morning, bright and early, to the sounds of a violin wailing. Sherlock had stood at the foot of his bed, amused smirk on his lips as he played John a wake up tune. John had made a half-hearted lunge for the man and his noise maker, his eyes squinted mostly closed, his stomach clenching violently in protest of the movement. Sherlock had grinned widely and disappeared back down the stairs after avoiding the initial, however pathetic, lunge. At breakfast, after he had showered and dressed for the day, Sherlock had spoken loudly and clearly, his every syllable making John's head throb and his eyeballs feel like they were on the verge of exploding.

Tea and a bit of toast, followed by three ibuprofen, had him feeling slightly more human and he had looked forward to his day of lazing about. Only to have any and all notions of such a thing ripped from his mind when his phone rang, the sound shrill and sharp and cutting. "Could be work." Sherlock murmured smugly, not looking up from the paper he'd been reading, all too aware of John's desire to ignore the call. "Could be, yes." Is John's grumpy reply as he answers the phone, caller I.D having told him it was Sarah. Sherlock had watched on in unsuppressed delight as John's mouth had steadily drooped downward into a severe frown, as he had argued his case, that he was hungover and shouldn't be working, had watched him lose. 

Sarah's argument had been a good one, it was cold season, the most he would be doing was checking temperatures and writing prescriptions, grunt work mostly, but she didn't have any one else and remember just last week when I let you off early so you could go gallivanting about with your boyfriend? John had argued that Sherlock wasn't his boyfriend, quite vehemently, and had ultimately lost the argument. A grumpy scowl on his face, John had trudged back up stairs for is shoes and socks and left for work in a huff.

So the unexpected reprieve was nothing short of a blessing and he gave the doctor who had just arrived a bright, if somewhat short smile and got the hell out of there after thanking Sarah profusely. She had smiled at him, the expression a little skeptical, followed up by bemusement when John had enthusiastically given her a quick kiss on the cheek before fleeing for his life.  


Except the universe clearly had it out for him because there wasn't a cab in sight and it had begun to rain softly, rain droplets settling in his hair. He made it two blocks before he saw the first cab, which had passed by without slowing. Two more blocks and his frustration was peaking, the insistent pounding in his temples not helping in the least bit as his temper flared. The second cab was reluctant to stop, due the fact that the light downpour had escalated into a heavy rain. John was climbing in quickly before the cab had even stopped entirely, tugging his jacket back down from over his head. John gave the cabby his address and hunkered down in the cracking, well worn material of the seat, wiping water from his eyes. 

Water droplets clung to his skin and he did his best to dry them, to little effect as his jacket was nearly soaked through. His eyes closed of their own accord and John pressed his fingertips against his closed eyelids, huffing out a quiet, relieved breath as some of the pain eased. He had no one to blame but himself. And Mike. Mike was definitely to blame. Damn that Mike. "Rough night?" The cabbies' voice cut through the silence John had been reveling in, the sound scratchy.

Reluctantly, John opens his eyes, the itch of sunlight, however dim it might be, making his eyes burn. "S'pose you could say that." His voice cracks about halfway through his reply and he clears his throat as he gives the cab driver a quick once over, his initial thoughts on the man proven true. Unshaven cheeks, dirty fingernails and bloodshot eyes. There was a crook to his nose, broken atleast a few times, and a rather impressive beer gut. Alcoholic, low personal hygiene. Recently divorced if the tanline on his finger was any inclination. John closed his eyes and went back to not thinking. It hurt less. His eyes slit open again when he realizes what he's just done and he sucks in a sharp breath before grumpily sinking back into the seat.

The ride is bumpy, but largely silent, which John appreciates greatly. The pain lurking behind his eyes has lessened, ready to come back at a seconds notice. John's eyes had opened the second the cab had started to slow, so the driver's announcement was a bit redundant. He paid the man quickly and got out, jacket back over his head as he hurried to the door, keys in hand. He'd pulled his jacket up over his head when he'd gotten out and the rain stung the exposed skin of his hand as it pelted down. 

It took a few tries, but he managed to slide the key into the lock, twist the knob and step into the delightfully dim hallway all in one quick movement. He shrugs out of his jacket as soon as he's in, the soaked material clinging to him as hangs it up as far from the other jackets as he can. Water drips from his hair and down his relatively dry back as he starts up the stairs, the near quiet of the flat oddly relaxing.

A streak of violent red on the wall above the sixth step stops him in his tracks, his heart pounding more quickly as he takes in his surroundings. John can hear Mrs. Hudson toodling about in her kitchen, so nothing wrong there. His eyes follow the line of the wall, catching on the vibrant red before moving tensely on as he climbs two more steps. A dash of an obnoxious shade of yellow lies a few feet away from the red and a distinct handprint, in blue, lies above it. His eyebrows nearing his hairline, John purses his lips in confusion and continues up the steps, cautiously dipping his finger into the center of the print before sniffing his stained fingertip very lightly. Blueberries. It smells like blueberries. 

A second test proves that the yellow paint smells like pineapples. John is very confused. His first sight upon entering the flat is the smiley that lies above the couch. It now has a rather spiffing moustache, painted on in what he presumes is the goop that smells like pineapples. There's another handprint on the arm of the sofa, this one purple, surrounded by small smudges of paint that have no order to them whatsoever.

John huffs quietly and then pauses when a loud thump comes from Sherlock's room, some of his earlier tension returning as he calls out easily.  


"Sherlock?" Another thump and muffled cursing follows and a few seconds pass before Sherlock calls back "Not now John, I'm busy." The amount of sheer exasperation in Sherlock's voice makes John smile without really meaning to, the aggravated stress put into Sherlock's words making it stretch into a grin. He relaxes entirely as he slips out of his shoes, grimacing when it makes a squelchy sound, and sets them infront of the lit fireplace to dry after removing his wet socks. Ambling into the kitchen, John snatches up a dish towel and dries the water from his hair while he looks for the pain relievers. After downing two of them and half a glass of water he turns, only to stop abruptly, a startled "Aaaa!" that almost sounds sarcastic escaping him when he comes face to face with a very wild looking Sherlock.  


John tightens his grip on his water, having almost lost it, and takes a step back as Sherlock grins at him. "Christ, what?" He snaps, startled by the sudden and unexpected Sherlock. Sherlock's head tilts as he considers John and he rocks back on his heels as he gives John a once-over. After the initial shock and once his heart had settled a bit, John actually looks at Sherlock. Pupils blown, lips parted due to heavy breathing, cheeks flushed. His hair is everywhere, and spotted with varying shades of color, the most prominent being a medium-sized patch of blue.

Sherlock's chest is bare and rising and falling rapidly. And covered almost completely with streaks of paint and the odd drawing here or there. In red, across his ribs, are a cluster of violin notes, a cartoonish bee buzzing above it, complete with the dotted line that signifies that it's flying and on his side is a smaller version of the smiley over the couch, sans moustache. And, over the place where Sherlock's heart lies, are John's initials. Confusion and amusement war and if John weren't so concerned for his flatmates safety, he'd likely be doubled over laughing.

As it were he tries to cover the loud snort that escapes him by taking a quick drink of water, only to choke on it and end up sputtering uselessly. Sherlock watches the proceedings with rapt interest, his eyes trained on John's face as he wipes water from his lips. John clears his throat and gives Sherlock an irritated look, like it's his fault he had choked. Sherlock gives him a crazy smile, all white teeth and wide eyes and takes the few steps necessary to put him well within John's personal space. John gave a startled yelp and accidentally backs into the counter, his hip throbbing as Sherlock cages him in with an arm on either side of him. He huffs out an annoyed breath and pushes against Sherlock's arms, the new pain not helping with his temper. 

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" John griped, no real fire behind his words "I'm really tired, just tell me what you've done so I can go to sleep." He admits that maybe that was a little harsh, but he's tired and sore and his head feels like it's been split and no. He isn't doing this, not right now. Sherlock just keeps grinning down at him, that stupid look on his stupid face. 

Sherlock leans his head forward until it rests against John's and brings a hand up to gently feather his fingertips over the skin just beneath John's eye, the delicate skin soft against his fingers. John is startled into silence, his breath sticking in his throat as careful fingers brush over the skin of his prominent eye bags. John can make out all the different striations of color in Sherlock's eyes, he's that close, and John takes a second to marvel at the fantastic variation of color before snapping himself out of it. Mild irritation and confusion mix and John's fingers wrap tight round Sherlock's wrist and he pulls it and the appendage attached to it away from his face carefully, his lips parting as a few choice questions rise in his throat. A surprised grunt leaves him when a purple painted finger presses against his lips, smothering anything he might have said. 

The scent of grapes stinging his nose and making his eyes water and he blinks to clear them, his mouth sticky with the paint that colors Sherlock's hands. He jerks his head sharply away and regrets it as his head spins, Sherlock makes a grumpy sound of disagreement and gives him a stern, reprimanding look. John gives his bottom lips a tentative lick and wrinkles his nose at the taste, making a very rude gesture at Sherlock as he knocks his arm aside and steps around and away from him. 

Sherlock eyes follow the movement of John's tongue raptly, his own tongue mimicking the action as his eyes lock onto John's mouth. John shifts nervously when Sherlock leans forward and traces the line of his mouth with his middle-finger, the gentle pressure tickling against his lips. John's lips twitch upwards in the ghost of a smile and he takes hold of Sherlock's wrist again, more gently this time, and drags Sherlock's hand away from his mouth. "That's going to be hell to get out." John says, nodding at the wild mess that is his hair, his voice loud in his own ears and slightly strained as he catches a red stained curl between his thumb and rolls it carefully. 

The sudden sting in his hand is unexpected and so is the way Sherlock strokes his hair, almost like he's soothing a startled animal, while making soft shushing sounds. The look he gives John is openly hostile. John's mouth flops open and he gives Sherlock the most incredulous look he can muster, his hands going to his hips as he glares at Sherlock narrowly. 

John sucks in a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, and opens his mouth to inquire as to what it is that he's gone and gotten into now. Only to have a sticky, paint slathered press against his parted lips, silencing him effectively. John sputters against the purple painted finger, the gleefully manic look that dawns on Sherlock's face causing John's stomach to sink. Sherlock moves quickly and suddenly, the finger dragging down over his lips and leaving his face entirely as Sherlock grips his bicep tightly, finger digging deep into the skin as he hauls John forward a few steps. John breaks his grip quickly and casts a quick glance round the kitchen, which had failed to do when he'd been after pills.

There's an empty plate on the table, with what look like brownie crumbs and John's stomach sinks as a horrible possibility sets in. "Sherlock. Did you eat Mrs. Hudsons' brownies?" His voice is flat even to his own ears, his instincts telling him that he's right and that Sherlock is likely high off his arse. 

Sherlock's face closes off and he stands to his full height, his shoulder set and his eyes narrowed as gives John a pompous, haughty look. John's lips tug down as he repeats the question, his tone hard. "Did you eat her brownies?" He bites out, taking a menacing step forward while punctuating each word with a jab of his finger. Sherlock flinches after each and John feels a bit like a bully, but he needs to know if Sherlock's eaten anything toxic. Sherlock crumbles under John's insistence and nods shamefacedly, his shoulders hunched as he stares at the floor guiltily. "I ate her brownies." The words are whispered quietly, almost brokenly and John wants to laugh and apologize all at once.

"Well that's alright now, isn't it? We'll just go and apologize, yeah?" John says quietly while offering Sherlock his hand. Sherlock's entire face lights up, a happy little smile pulling at his lips as takes John's hand, his fingers lacing with John's as he stares at him expectantly. Sherlock's bouncing again and John gives a huff of exhausted amusement as he leads Sherlock down the stairs, hands locked. Sherlock's eyes never leave their interlocked hands and John feels a rush of tenderness as the large man follows him like an overgrown toddler.

"Do you think she's going to be mad?" The words are spoken quietly and there's genuine fear in the softly spoken question. John pauses, his hand hovering over door frame he'd been about to knock, and considers the earnest question. He replies patiently "No, I don't think she will be." and knocks. After a brief conversation with Mrs. Hudson, in which Sherlock apologizes with as few words as possible while hiding behind John, his fingers clutching at the soft material of his jumper, John learns that Sherlock had in fact eaten Mrs. Hudson's pot brownies. Mrs. Hudson looks more amused than she should be and Sherlock is playing with his tag and John didn't sign up for this.

Pinching the bridge of his nose sharply between his fingers, he again takes Sherlock's hand and leads him back up the steps, Mrs. H's apology following him out. "I'm sorry John." The words are spoken solemnly and John sighs as he drags a hand down his face. "Not your fault." He grumbles back, the monster of a headache that had plagued him all day returning as he considers his options. Mrs. Hudson had told them, mostly John, since Sherlock had refused to come out from behind John throughout the entire conversation, apparently afraid of Mrs. Hudson's wrath, that it should wear off by the end of the day and that a good nights sleep would see him right as rain. Thankfully, there had only been a few brownies left on the plate and John thanked God for small favors. 

After a few minutes of contemplation John decided that he should probably get Sherlock cleaned up and fed. Leaving Sherlock to his own devices, however unwise plan that may be, John calls in and orders take-out from the Chinese place down the street while Sherlock tries to sneak off into his room and fails at being sneaky entirely. There's more ominous rustling from Sherlock's room, but John is much too tired to care and instead goes to see if his shoes have dried enough to be put up. While he's bent over checking in his shoes, Sherlock peaks his head out and ensures that John is distracted before creeping from his room, arms laden with paint, and into the living room, where he silently drops his cargo onto the middle of the floor. Just as John goes to stand back up, Sherlock lunges, movements surprisingly quick and graceful as he grabs the bottom of John's jumper and pulls upwards, obscuring John's sight entirely.

The bottom half of John's face is still vibrantly purple and the residual paint stains the inside of his jumper as it's pulled up and over his head, his damp hair pushed every which way. Despite the warmth of the room, goosebumps rise on his skin. Sherlock tosses the clothes he holds in his sticky hands onto the couch, his eyes moving over the warm, tanned skin set out before him. His tongue pinned between his lips as he marvels at the abundance of skin now on display, Sherlock watches the sift of muscle under John's lovely skin raptly, his new canvas enthralling in all the right ways.

John's scars are especially beautiful to Sherlock and his hand rises to brush over the pale lines of them, only to stop an inch away from the heated skin and drop back to his side. John's irritation ebbs somewhat and his fingers twitch as he crosses his arms over his chest, his nipples having hardened in the chill of the room. Sherlock follows the gesture and John can watches his adam's apple bob as Sherlock swallows, his skin flushed and rosy. "Please John?" Sherlock pleads, and John's breath catches as the question registers, confusion knitting his brow before he catches sight if the paint. "Absolutely not." John replies firmly, the 'please' catching him slightly off guard.

"Pretty pretty please John?" Sherlock asks again, his eyes wide and pleading, his lips pouting as he rocks back on his heels. If John were thinking properly he'd just tote himself right on upstairs but he isn't and because of that he ends up sitting in between Sherlock's spread legs, his mouth still a little purple and Sherlock's hands moving over his back with surprising intensity. 

John's expression is a mixture of confusion, concern and mild amusement and he cringes just a bit when Sherlock drags a finger down the length of his spine, the paint cold. Sherlock makes a soothing sound and endeavors to warm the paint beneath his palms before applying. John shudders at the second drag of fingertips, Sherlock's hands uncharacteristically warm against his exposed skin. 

When all is said and done, although John can't see the masterpieces that Sherlock has doodled in his back, Sherlock has drawn a set of eyes of oddly detailed eyes on John's shoulder blades, written his initials over John's heart and pressed his hands against Sherlock's ribcage, leaving the prints behind. The odd swirl or dot is mixed in with the rest and Sherlock surveys his work with a gleam in his eyes, tongue still caught between his lips. John had settled into a light doze while sitting up about fifteen minutes into Sherlock's art session and is woken by Sherlock's fingers brushing gently through the hair at the nape of his neck.

Sherlock makes a shushing sound, much like he had for his hair, and soothes a hand down John's spine, like he's petting a cat. John gives a quiet 'humph' and stares blearily at his feet, still half asleep. Sherlock keeps up his petting until the doorbell rings, the sound making him jump and reminding John that he'd ordered take out. John wants to scream but instead untangles himself from Sherlock, who had somewhere along the way tossed his legs over John's, and went to get the damn door.

The shocked looked on the take out man's face would have been terribly amusing in any other situation, instead John was perfectly mortified and paid the man quickly, closing the door rather rudely in his face when he opened his mouth. John's face is warm and he grumbles as mounts the stairs. Sherlock is where John had left him, looking sullen at the loss of his John, but upon his return Sherlock's entire face lights up and he rises in a single swift movement, only staggering a little, and bounds towards John. John hastily sets down the take out bags and braces him self, a stern reprimand already on his tongue. Only to smothered in Sherlock's arms as the towering man encompasses him in a hug, his nose buried in John's hair. John is stunned momentarily before he wriggles out of Sherlock's hold, his face warmer than before as he clears the table and sets out the food. 

John replaces Sherlock's chopsticks with a fork before he'd even set the food out, not near drunk enough to deal with that particular experience. Sherlock eats like it's been weeks since he's eaten. If John didn't know any better, he'd say it had been. As it were John eats half of the food he'd ordered for himself and then pushes the rest over to Sherlock, who had all but cleaned his plate. Bits of rice stuck to his face and John dutifully cleaned them off as Sherlock beamed at him, practically inhaling everything in sight. When he'd finished the food Sherlock looked warm and sleepy, a sight which made John's heart give an odd flip as he cleaned up. He gives Sherlock a once over, taking in the paint that had dried in his hair and coats his skin. 

The prospect so harrowing that John feels a bit like crying, he decides Sherlock needs a bath. It might easily be the worst idea he's ever had. Steeling himself, John pulls Sherlock out of his seat in the kitchen and begins to lead him to the bathroom, only to have to stop and carry him in his arms halfway through, as Sherlock is falling asleep on his feet. John's muscles are burning by the time he sets Sherlock on the loo, but the soft, sleepy sounds Sherlock are more than making up for any discomfort he might be experiencing.

After turning on and adjusting the water to an acceptable temperature, John leaves the tub to fill while he cleans off as much of the paint as he can with a wet wash cloth and soap. By the time the tubs filled, Sherlock is huddled in a towel, most of the paint in his torso cleaned off, shivering as the water cools on his skin while giving John the evil eye. John laughs. And then he laughs even harder when Sherlock attempts to rise with dignity, his legs not wanting to cooperate. He figures he's earned it and doesn't feel the least bit guilty when he helps the drama queen into the tub, Sherlock's pants still on to preserve what little of his modesty remains. The water is tinted with the paint that John had missed and he wets his rag again before cleaning them off absently. Snagging the cup from the edge of the tub, he tips Sherlock's head back and wets Sherlock's hair thoroughly.

When he's done Sherlock's looks like a cat someone had dumped bucket of water on. John's own back is still covered in paint, but he plans on getting Sherlock into bed before he deals with it. Sherlock is pouting, his head turned away from John in a blatant display of defiance as John squeezes a blob of shampoo into his palm and goes about tackling the mess that is currently Sherlock's hair, a healthy glob of conditioner aiding him in the process.

John snickers as Sherlock's lower lip wobbles, his eyes closed and his head tipped back as John works his fingers through the snarls in his hair. John's got his tongue caught between his teeth while he concentrates and almost misses the quiet humming sound that's coming from Sherlock's throat. He doesn't, however, miss the blatant erection that Sherlock is sporting. Sherlock gives a soft sigh and his head lolls in John's hands as he rinses the last of the shampoo out, his skin warmer than it should be and his throat oddly tight. After easing Sherlock down so his back rests against the tub, John goes to unplug the drain. Sherlock has other ideas. The movement is sudden and catches him completely off guard, Sherlock's fingers looping through his belt loops and tugging as he perches precariously on the side of the tub and tugging. 

The end result is a drenched John, a soaked floor and a very pleased Sherlock. John is sputtering, soapy, painty water having gotten into his mouth when he'd been unceremoniously dumped into the tub. Sherlock's arms encircle his middle, arms under his armpits and locked tight just over his sternum. John is situated much like he had been earlier, chest to back between Sherlock's legs. His pants are soaked, the wet material clinging uncomfortably as Sherlock nuzzles his nose onto the soft skin behind John's ear.

The seconds drag on while Sherlock just holds him, his heartbeat felt against John's back as he's ruthlessly snuggled. Giving in to the inevitable, John relaxes into Sherlock's hold, the warm, however cloudy, water doing wonders on his achey muscles. Sherlock's breath whispers over sensitive skin, a pleased sigh that tickles against the shell of John's ear, and he takes John's wash cloth in hand, dipping it into the water before leaning away and dragging it reverently down the curve of John's spine. He washes his hair as well, his actions slow and careful as he washes the shampoo out, his fingers lingering on John's skin. 

John, who'd gone limp from the first delicate touch of Sherlock's hands, stirred when Sherlock pressed his lips to John's forehead. Warm and boneless, John reluctantly gets out of the tub, his soaked pants dripping on the floor before he ultimately decided to strip out of them. Sherlock watched through half lidded eyes as John toweled himself off before carefully helping Sherlock out. Sherlock wasn't of much use, as he was possibly more boneless than John had been, leaning heavily on John, his head resting on his shoulder as he dozed. It took John a good fifteen minute to remove Sherlock's sodden trousers and another ten to dry him off completely, only to then have to drag him to his room.

John nearly gave up when he realized he was going to have to wrestle Sherlock into his pajamas, but he bravely soldiered on. Sherlock woke up about halfway through, his head still pillowed on John's shoulder, and giggled as John manipulated his legs into Sherlock's flannel jammie pants. He gave up after he got his bottom half clothed and just dumped him into his bed, breathing hard with his hands on his knees, still in his soaked boxers, looking perfectly ridiculous with his hair sticking up every which way. Sherlock watched him from the nest of blankets he'd buried himself in, a sleepy smile on his lips as he watched John. John in turn made a very rude gesture in Sherlock's direction, which resulted in more sleepy giggles. 

John huffed as he went to leave, flicking out the lights as he went, only to stop when Sherlock gave a squeak of dismay, his head popping out of his blanket nest to give John a betrayed look. He went to leave any way and Sherlock started to scramble out of bed, to John's dismay. He stopped where he was and gave Sherlock a wary look. "Yeah?" Sherlock froze where he was half in bed and half out, his eyes sleepy but alert, his pupils still huge. "Stay with me please." Sherlock whispered quietly, his voice sounding so young as he pleaded with John.

John was tired. He was incredibly tired and Sherlock's bed looked so warm and fluffy and he knew that he shouldn't but that didn't stop him from coming back into the room and quickly changing into a pair of Sherlock's sleep pants, too big by far but oh so comfy, and climbing into the huge bed. Sherlock smiled, his entire face lighting up as he scrambled back to make room for John, whom he enveloped in a blanket cocoon the second he'd settled on the bed and pulled tight to his chest. Chest to chest with Sherlock, whom had entangled his legs with John once he'd been ensnared in the blankie cocoon, John didn't even bother to protest, just wrapped Sherlock in his arms and settled in for a good nights rest, Sherlock's even breaths ruffling his damp hair while his heartbeat beat softly under his ear.


End file.
